Poetry Sunday: Sonnet 73 by William Shakespeare

How about a little Shakespeare to brighten your Sunday? This is actually one of my favorites of his sonnets. I have featured it here before but it was way back in 2018, practically a lifetime ago! 

He's writing here about just this time of year but also about this time of life - the autumn of our years. He speaks of the "boughs which shake against the cold...where late the sweet birds sang." There are no boughs shaking against the cold here where daytime temperatures still reach around 90 degrees F. But I am in my autumn and winter is coming.

Sonnet 73: That time of year thou mayst in me behold

by William Shakespeare

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see'st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consum'd with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

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